I attended the Hay House Writing Workshop in San Francisco. It was an amazing experience! But with one short, two minute writing prompt, we were asked a question that has set me on edge and put me at odds with myself. What won't you write about? Wow! They wanted us to do a free write about what we won't write about. I didn't know if I could do it.
As I've tried to expand on that idea both in concept and in writing, I find that it is something that I will need to do. It is something that I will need to push myself to, a goal to reach, a place to heal. It will be crossing a boundary that I've placed myself behind. It is a very, very tall wall that I've been too afraid to breach. And, it is of my own making. Yet, I now believe that crossing that boundary will allow me to be free of the things that tie me here and keep me from moving forward.
I'm not yet prepared to actually write about it, because the writing will make it permanent and personal. I am not yet prepared to write about the emotional and physical abuse that I tolerated in my marraige and the role I played in it. I would love to be able to blame it all on my husband, but I cannot do that without accepting the blame that is mine, for knowing that things were not right and taking a stand for myself. And yet this is where I can finally accept what was and put it aside.
And yet, I'm not ready to cross that boundary. I'm still not able to write about it.
Sunday, October 27, 2013
Thursday, October 10, 2013
Beauty
Ha!
I want to say that I never cared, but that would be a lie. In my mind, I'd see myself as beautiful. I'd create an image that ....that....was just not what the mirror revealed, was just not what others saw.
I'd like to say that I know what they saw, but that too would be a lie.
I know the words that I heard...boobs....Mr Ed...clumsy....these weren't words that spoke beauty to me.
When I was older, I gave myself to a man who professed his love and said I was beautiful. But his words came with strings. I was still clumsy. I was beautiful, because he'd do anything he wished I'd ask him for sexually, but I didn't. I was beautiful, except that I was not that bright. I was beautiful except that I had jowls, those of my mother. I was beautiful, after he twisted my words around his, until my eyes were red and puffy and he'd console me, with sex, for himself. I was beautiful...just not to me.
And then there was another, who spoke the words so often...who told me his feelings, his truth. Who was angry when I didn't trust, didn't believe. Until I did. And then it stopped. The words. The beauty. Was it ever real?
I could tell myself that I'm beautiful. I can imagine. But I can't hear a voice that isn't mine, and the beauty has no reflection.
I try to believe, even if it's just a dream. I try to hope it's different then what I face, when I open my eyes. And even if I can see my beauty, it is me who is blind, if no one else does, or is my vision enough?
I want to say that I never cared, but that would be a lie. In my mind, I'd see myself as beautiful. I'd create an image that ....that....was just not what the mirror revealed, was just not what others saw.
I'd like to say that I know what they saw, but that too would be a lie.
I know the words that I heard...boobs....Mr Ed...clumsy....these weren't words that spoke beauty to me.
When I was older, I gave myself to a man who professed his love and said I was beautiful. But his words came with strings. I was still clumsy. I was beautiful, because he'd do anything he wished I'd ask him for sexually, but I didn't. I was beautiful, except that I was not that bright. I was beautiful except that I had jowls, those of my mother. I was beautiful, after he twisted my words around his, until my eyes were red and puffy and he'd console me, with sex, for himself. I was beautiful...just not to me.
And then there was another, who spoke the words so often...who told me his feelings, his truth. Who was angry when I didn't trust, didn't believe. Until I did. And then it stopped. The words. The beauty. Was it ever real?
I could tell myself that I'm beautiful. I can imagine. But I can't hear a voice that isn't mine, and the beauty has no reflection.
I try to believe, even if it's just a dream. I try to hope it's different then what I face, when I open my eyes. And even if I can see my beauty, it is me who is blind, if no one else does, or is my vision enough?
Sunday, August 11, 2013
I am NOT the Dog (or Pet) Whisperer
Calm, balanced, assertive energy...I guess I don't have it. Cesar Milan always proclaims the importance of this type of energy when dealing with dogs, and I would guess other animals as well. In some of his episodes of the "Dog Whisperer" he shows dogs who become out of balance when a particular owner comes near them. ...I think that he would have a field day with me.
My morning usually begins when I wake up and try not to make a sound or move too suddenly. Heaven forbid, I check the time on the phone charging beside my bed. The slightest noise, light or movement is like catnip to my daughter's two cats, Milo and Pandy (Pandora). It's a call to action, or attention, that brings them into my face and next to my hands, demanding immediate affection. This is particularly true of Milo, who before the age of 1, has become a very fat cat. Being hefty, he is quickly learning to push his weight around, to lean himself into me, my hands, my face, and use his girth to push them away from whatever they are doing and put himself in the space for attention instead. Ugh! "No! I just want to relax a few more minutes!!" He doesn't care! And funnier still (writing about it, not dealing with it) is that after he is pushed away and returns, only to be rejected yet again, he finally tires of the game. But then, with an, "I'll show you attitude", he struts to the night table and knocks down everything on it. He demands his attention.
So then, my morning really starts. Out of bed, I trudge to the kitchen, bleary eyed, finding the cat food. Milo has triumphantly beat me there, hovering over their bowls. He is the first to get the food, claim the food, make it his. Probably how he has gotten so fat. Pandy sits patiently, waiting for her turn. Cats now cared for. Check!
Time to start my coffee. Oh, it has a timer, and why I don't use it, I couldn't tell you...its the same quirkiness that caused me to stubbornly type in phone numbers for years rather than using speed dial. Like, if I didn't do it, I'd forget the number. Well, I finally gave in, and many numbers I have forgotten. Somehow, I don't think that using a timer will cause me to forget how to make coffee. But you never know.
The next task, is to walk the dogs. I currently live with three. I have an old chihuahua mix, a new Pom-Chi-Weenie puppy (sounds fancier than saying mutt), and my son's Gordon Setter mix. Their names are Gordo, Bentley, and Roscoe. The ritual begins.
First the leashes. This usually entails calling their names several times, just so they will know they are wanted. Not that they didn't know, its just that they come to the door, and scamper away, and back again, rarely stopping and staying long enough so I can attach the leash.
Usually, Milo has finished consuming his first meal by this time and is sitting in front of the door, as though he expects to go out with the rest of the animals. I think he could easily be trained to walk on a leash, but I will not add one more rope to the mix, or be one of those people. I used to have a neighbor who regularly walked her cat. It was a very strange sight. No, that it not me.
So, Milo gets shooed from the door and we venture out. The walk, is an adventure. In the three months since we've had Bentley, I have learned how to hold the leashes and which to hold where so they are handled as well as possible, which probably isn't well, at all. Down the stairs, we have our path set. They have selected their trees and their spots to finish their business. Unfortunately, in the process, they decide to make a dream weaver out of their leashes and twist and turn themselves so that I am in the middle of a mess. My expert leash holding doesn't do much more than make sure I don't lose the leashes when I am untangling myself from their web.
Of course, I could walk them separately, but I am far to stubborn for that. The time that would take out of each morning and the number of trips up and down the stairs, well, I just feel like they should learn how to behave in this little pack we've created. I'm not so sure they have the same intention. I've been asked who the dominant one is, and I honestly don't know. I don't think that one of us yet established that.
I just realized that when Bentley came into my life, was about the same time my sciatica started. An awful, nagging pain that has taken away any joy I had exercising or walking in general, and some days, when I'm in a twisted mess and trying to lift my legs out of the leashes, I just want to cry. Hmm, I wonder if there's a connection?
Why do I do it? I was wondering that same thing. I'm a softy and my daughter talked me into it is probably the best answer. I can also say that coming home to happy pets, who are excited to see me, is probably another. After working all day, I come through the door to these four legged lovelies who are doing their happy dances. It's like they are all really glad to see me. Happy I'm home...and that its time for a walk, so they can weave themselves around me, once again, dog whisperer, or not.
My morning usually begins when I wake up and try not to make a sound or move too suddenly. Heaven forbid, I check the time on the phone charging beside my bed. The slightest noise, light or movement is like catnip to my daughter's two cats, Milo and Pandy (Pandora). It's a call to action, or attention, that brings them into my face and next to my hands, demanding immediate affection. This is particularly true of Milo, who before the age of 1, has become a very fat cat. Being hefty, he is quickly learning to push his weight around, to lean himself into me, my hands, my face, and use his girth to push them away from whatever they are doing and put himself in the space for attention instead. Ugh! "No! I just want to relax a few more minutes!!" He doesn't care! And funnier still (writing about it, not dealing with it) is that after he is pushed away and returns, only to be rejected yet again, he finally tires of the game. But then, with an, "I'll show you attitude", he struts to the night table and knocks down everything on it. He demands his attention.
So then, my morning really starts. Out of bed, I trudge to the kitchen, bleary eyed, finding the cat food. Milo has triumphantly beat me there, hovering over their bowls. He is the first to get the food, claim the food, make it his. Probably how he has gotten so fat. Pandy sits patiently, waiting for her turn. Cats now cared for. Check!
Time to start my coffee. Oh, it has a timer, and why I don't use it, I couldn't tell you...its the same quirkiness that caused me to stubbornly type in phone numbers for years rather than using speed dial. Like, if I didn't do it, I'd forget the number. Well, I finally gave in, and many numbers I have forgotten. Somehow, I don't think that using a timer will cause me to forget how to make coffee. But you never know.
The next task, is to walk the dogs. I currently live with three. I have an old chihuahua mix, a new Pom-Chi-Weenie puppy (sounds fancier than saying mutt), and my son's Gordon Setter mix. Their names are Gordo, Bentley, and Roscoe. The ritual begins.
First the leashes. This usually entails calling their names several times, just so they will know they are wanted. Not that they didn't know, its just that they come to the door, and scamper away, and back again, rarely stopping and staying long enough so I can attach the leash.
Usually, Milo has finished consuming his first meal by this time and is sitting in front of the door, as though he expects to go out with the rest of the animals. I think he could easily be trained to walk on a leash, but I will not add one more rope to the mix, or be one of those people. I used to have a neighbor who regularly walked her cat. It was a very strange sight. No, that it not me.
So, Milo gets shooed from the door and we venture out. The walk, is an adventure. In the three months since we've had Bentley, I have learned how to hold the leashes and which to hold where so they are handled as well as possible, which probably isn't well, at all. Down the stairs, we have our path set. They have selected their trees and their spots to finish their business. Unfortunately, in the process, they decide to make a dream weaver out of their leashes and twist and turn themselves so that I am in the middle of a mess. My expert leash holding doesn't do much more than make sure I don't lose the leashes when I am untangling myself from their web.
Of course, I could walk them separately, but I am far to stubborn for that. The time that would take out of each morning and the number of trips up and down the stairs, well, I just feel like they should learn how to behave in this little pack we've created. I'm not so sure they have the same intention. I've been asked who the dominant one is, and I honestly don't know. I don't think that one of us yet established that.
I just realized that when Bentley came into my life, was about the same time my sciatica started. An awful, nagging pain that has taken away any joy I had exercising or walking in general, and some days, when I'm in a twisted mess and trying to lift my legs out of the leashes, I just want to cry. Hmm, I wonder if there's a connection?
Why do I do it? I was wondering that same thing. I'm a softy and my daughter talked me into it is probably the best answer. I can also say that coming home to happy pets, who are excited to see me, is probably another. After working all day, I come through the door to these four legged lovelies who are doing their happy dances. It's like they are all really glad to see me. Happy I'm home...and that its time for a walk, so they can weave themselves around me, once again, dog whisperer, or not.
Monday, July 29, 2013
I'm Not a Victim: Binding Myself to the Expectations of Others
I can still remember, sitting at lunch with a friend, when she turned to me and said, "Stop being a victim!" Her brutal honesty shocked me. And of course, I argued with her that I was NOT a victim. I had my reasons for the things that I did. Well, its taken me quite a while to accept what, at the time, was keeping me blind. I had so completely bound myself to trying to meet the expectations of others, that I lived in a world of can't. The things that I wanted to do were far overshadowed by the reasons I thought they couldn't be done. The whys I had for acting the way I did lay in what I thought were others expectations of me. I truly was a complete victim!
I'm working on changing my thinking, and every time I catch myself in victimization mode I now smile, and I'm very grateful because I realize how far I've come.
As a teenager, I don't think that I was ever a problem to my parents. Who knows, may be I was. But I remember not wanting to ever push the boundaries, or push them too far. I didn't want to risk what they might think of the choices I made. So, I just never pushed. As a result, I began to live my life for their approval, guided by what I felt were their expectations.
When I was a high school junior, my father looked at me and asked, "If we get this new boat, then you'll go to the local university, OK?" I didn't know any better. I didn't know any worse. So I stayed at home and went to school because I didn't think I had a choice. I couldn't do anything else. I was relatively intelligent, above the top 10% of my graduating class of almost 800...and I didn't know that I could do anything else. Please understand, I'm not saying that it was a bad university. It's just that I felt I had to follow the path expected of me.
Selecting a major was also not easy. I wanted to be a marine biologist, but the university did not have that major. I wanted to be a writer, but what could I do as a writer? And besides, I couldn't see that leading to something my parents expected of me. As a result, my identified major was computer science. It's quite funny now to look back on this decision. At the time, it was a growing field and certainly I would be able to get a good job. Now, the major where I started my college career no longer exists, at least in that form.
After bouncing around through several majors, I graduated with a degree in elementary education. While many students feel called to be teachers, I did not. My interest was in graduating and having a job where I could be employed. Well, I did, and I was, but it didn't come easily. The summer after I graduated, my retail employer promoted me to assistant manager. At that time, teaching jobs were hard to come by. But when one opened at the last minute, I took it. After all, I'd completed my degree, wasn't that what I was supposed to do?
My first teaching position wasn't for me. Wrong school, wrong grade, I lasted the year and then by mutual agreement moved on to another position. My second teaching position was better. A better fit for me, but time or events always left me unhappy and restless, looking for something more. Now, I'm starting my 7th year in my current position. Its been over 30 years and its the longest I've stayed anywhere.
The summer after that first year teaching, I started dating my STBX (soon to be ex) husband. That time alone could yield endless stories, but here's the abridged version. After meeting in January, we started dating in early June. Sitting in his car, after dating for two weeks, he looked at me and calmly stated that if we were still dating at the end of the summer, he wanted to marry me. Laughing, I told him to ask me more seriously...he did...I said, "Yes" and we'd see what the summer would bring.
He must have known how to push my buttons of shame or expectation because far before I considered it a done deal, he was telling his friends. One thing led to the next. Our relationship was filled with far more problems than any couple should have and many that were illegal. When I would want time, he wouldn't let me have it. When I wanted to walk away, he would follow. Finally, I convinced myself that because he was there, he must be the one for me. It didn't feel right, but with all the plans and expectations, I went ahead anyway. That was over 29 years ago.
Being the victim took me through my marriage. I was yelled at. I was hit. I was locked out of my room. I was locked out of my house. I covered his faults. I made excuses for him. I created a life and a career where I was able to support him, support our family and support myself while I kept feeling that nothing I ever did was good enough.
I felt that I was expected to be a good wife, a good mother, a good provider, so I couldn't dare let anyone know. When I finally let a few people in on my secret, they encouraged me to understand that I didn't have to sit by and take it. This time in particular, I was telling a story of the previous weekend, and how I'd probably been choked...and how he was spending our money, giving us financial problems, he was an alcoholic, drinking heavily when he wasn't spending money, my hard earned money, and yet I still felt that I couldn't do anything about it.
Events that finally allowed my separation a year ago were not pretty. After being sober for a couple of years, he had again spent several months with his life revolving around a bottle when I told him that I wanted a divorce. He totalled his car and was in and out of mental facilities because of his threats to commit suicide. He refused to leave, and told me that if I left, I couldn't take anything and he'd ruin me. And then there was the rest of my life. I had to keep myself together at work, being the chair of a large department at a university, I couldn't let anyone know. And I had to be strong and keep supporting my children.
It all came to a head Memorial Day weekend 2012. He again blew up, pushing the dinner across the table at me and then taking it out on our son when he stood up for me. He tried to choke him and pulled a knife. This time, I called the police for the last time. They took him away. And that was my opportunity to get a temporary restraining order. Unfortunately, that is only where the nightmare transitioned.
All this said, I am now, not a victim. At the time that many of the decisions were made, I didn't realize the impact they had, or would have, on my life. I didn't realize the cavern of hopelessness that I was losing myself in. But, now I do. Or at least, now I see my decisions for what they were. Choices. And now I know that I have the right to make choices for my life.
Now that I see them more clearly, my choices and my actions are often different. I say "no", more often. I make my decisions while understanding my wishes and the consequences if I disregard them. I'm learning. I'm growing. There are times that I still consider the expectations of others when I choose what I will do, but one thing's for sure, I'm no longer a victim.
I'm working on changing my thinking, and every time I catch myself in victimization mode I now smile, and I'm very grateful because I realize how far I've come.
As a teenager, I don't think that I was ever a problem to my parents. Who knows, may be I was. But I remember not wanting to ever push the boundaries, or push them too far. I didn't want to risk what they might think of the choices I made. So, I just never pushed. As a result, I began to live my life for their approval, guided by what I felt were their expectations.
When I was a high school junior, my father looked at me and asked, "If we get this new boat, then you'll go to the local university, OK?" I didn't know any better. I didn't know any worse. So I stayed at home and went to school because I didn't think I had a choice. I couldn't do anything else. I was relatively intelligent, above the top 10% of my graduating class of almost 800...and I didn't know that I could do anything else. Please understand, I'm not saying that it was a bad university. It's just that I felt I had to follow the path expected of me.
Selecting a major was also not easy. I wanted to be a marine biologist, but the university did not have that major. I wanted to be a writer, but what could I do as a writer? And besides, I couldn't see that leading to something my parents expected of me. As a result, my identified major was computer science. It's quite funny now to look back on this decision. At the time, it was a growing field and certainly I would be able to get a good job. Now, the major where I started my college career no longer exists, at least in that form.
After bouncing around through several majors, I graduated with a degree in elementary education. While many students feel called to be teachers, I did not. My interest was in graduating and having a job where I could be employed. Well, I did, and I was, but it didn't come easily. The summer after I graduated, my retail employer promoted me to assistant manager. At that time, teaching jobs were hard to come by. But when one opened at the last minute, I took it. After all, I'd completed my degree, wasn't that what I was supposed to do?
My first teaching position wasn't for me. Wrong school, wrong grade, I lasted the year and then by mutual agreement moved on to another position. My second teaching position was better. A better fit for me, but time or events always left me unhappy and restless, looking for something more. Now, I'm starting my 7th year in my current position. Its been over 30 years and its the longest I've stayed anywhere.
The summer after that first year teaching, I started dating my STBX (soon to be ex) husband. That time alone could yield endless stories, but here's the abridged version. After meeting in January, we started dating in early June. Sitting in his car, after dating for two weeks, he looked at me and calmly stated that if we were still dating at the end of the summer, he wanted to marry me. Laughing, I told him to ask me more seriously...he did...I said, "Yes" and we'd see what the summer would bring.
He must have known how to push my buttons of shame or expectation because far before I considered it a done deal, he was telling his friends. One thing led to the next. Our relationship was filled with far more problems than any couple should have and many that were illegal. When I would want time, he wouldn't let me have it. When I wanted to walk away, he would follow. Finally, I convinced myself that because he was there, he must be the one for me. It didn't feel right, but with all the plans and expectations, I went ahead anyway. That was over 29 years ago.
Being the victim took me through my marriage. I was yelled at. I was hit. I was locked out of my room. I was locked out of my house. I covered his faults. I made excuses for him. I created a life and a career where I was able to support him, support our family and support myself while I kept feeling that nothing I ever did was good enough.
I felt that I was expected to be a good wife, a good mother, a good provider, so I couldn't dare let anyone know. When I finally let a few people in on my secret, they encouraged me to understand that I didn't have to sit by and take it. This time in particular, I was telling a story of the previous weekend, and how I'd probably been choked...and how he was spending our money, giving us financial problems, he was an alcoholic, drinking heavily when he wasn't spending money, my hard earned money, and yet I still felt that I couldn't do anything about it.
Events that finally allowed my separation a year ago were not pretty. After being sober for a couple of years, he had again spent several months with his life revolving around a bottle when I told him that I wanted a divorce. He totalled his car and was in and out of mental facilities because of his threats to commit suicide. He refused to leave, and told me that if I left, I couldn't take anything and he'd ruin me. And then there was the rest of my life. I had to keep myself together at work, being the chair of a large department at a university, I couldn't let anyone know. And I had to be strong and keep supporting my children.
It all came to a head Memorial Day weekend 2012. He again blew up, pushing the dinner across the table at me and then taking it out on our son when he stood up for me. He tried to choke him and pulled a knife. This time, I called the police for the last time. They took him away. And that was my opportunity to get a temporary restraining order. Unfortunately, that is only where the nightmare transitioned.
All this said, I am now, not a victim. At the time that many of the decisions were made, I didn't realize the impact they had, or would have, on my life. I didn't realize the cavern of hopelessness that I was losing myself in. But, now I do. Or at least, now I see my decisions for what they were. Choices. And now I know that I have the right to make choices for my life.
Now that I see them more clearly, my choices and my actions are often different. I say "no", more often. I make my decisions while understanding my wishes and the consequences if I disregard them. I'm learning. I'm growing. There are times that I still consider the expectations of others when I choose what I will do, but one thing's for sure, I'm no longer a victim.
Wednesday, July 24, 2013
The Big Picture
Getting started in any story is always the hardest part for me. I tend to be a linear thinker and story-teller. One thing precedes the next, and then leads to the next. For my STBX husband, that often lead to a lot of frustration. "Will you just get to the point!" was his common, frustrated response. By the way, STBX stands for "soon to be ex." That's part of my story, but I'll tell that at another time.
So anyway, as a linear thinker, I always felt that the context or the occurrences that lead up to the big event were important, at least to me. In my opinion, it allows you to possibly understand why the story has unfolded the way that it has. Over the years, I have found that this unfolding is not necessarily important to everyone and they don't care about the big build up. So if you get annoyed, I'm sorry. Like I say on my home page, this is my story!
[note: I left the words "I'm sorry" in here for a purpose. Right now, it's how I think. It's a habit. It's really a bad habit. Many people hear those words and think that I'm saying that I'm wrong, when it is actually just a phrase that I have learned to try to deflect anger or judgement directed toward me. The problem is, the phrase is usually, "I'm sorry, but....", and for those who are expecting an apology after I'm sorry, it leads to more frustration. (Yes, STBX played a big role here.)]
Not wanting to, or liking to, be overly wordy, let me cut to the chase. As I said before, I'm putting it out there. So here's the overview of me...the big picture.
I'm a 53 year old white female. I'm sure that that sentence alone will make some people search for the x in the top left or right of their screen and move on. But, such is life. I don't view myself as being "middle-aged" (oh, the horror!) but, years don't lie. This site is part of a change that is taking place in my life. In some circles it's called a mid-life crisis. I prefer to think of it as a "revisioning." Yes, that's a word that I made up...but I kind of like it. It is part of the vision that I have for my life, and I am revising my life to make it happen.
I grew up in a regular old family, in a regular old neighborhood. Two parents, one brother, a string of pets. Nothing outrageous. The parents stayed married. We lived in the same house my whole life. Pretty unstory worthy so far, at least for the big picture. But as I go on there will be stories, I promise.
High school lead to college. I spent the typical four years, three majors and 182 hours to come out at the end with a teaching degree. (The saying goes, "If you can't do, teach." But I'll save that soapbox for another time.) I have taught students in just about every grade, bounced around a few teaching jobs, took the long way to a master's degree and the relatively short route to a Ph.D. For close to 20 years now I have been an academic. Ha! Let me rephrase that for my own sake, I've worked at a university, I've been a teacher, I've done service and have been, and still am, an administrator. There, I said it. I've never really considered myself an academic. (There are plenty more stories embedded throughout these years as well.)
I mentioned my STBX. I have been married for 29 years. For the last year, I have been separated from my husband. My "fault", if you will...my decision. For me, it has been a good thing. From my marriage, I have three wonderful, and sometimes not so wonderful, children. They are creating their stories too.
Have I bored you yet? Well, if you're still with me, on the surface the picture is rosy. But reality isn't always what you perceive from the outside. In spite of the face I held up to the world, what I hid was over 30 years of verbal and physical abuse. Codependent crap that originated from not knowing and discounting my worth and value to finally recognizing that this wasn't the way I wanted my story to end.
So, there's the big picture...welcome to my revisioning....welcome to my story.
So anyway, as a linear thinker, I always felt that the context or the occurrences that lead up to the big event were important, at least to me. In my opinion, it allows you to possibly understand why the story has unfolded the way that it has. Over the years, I have found that this unfolding is not necessarily important to everyone and they don't care about the big build up. So if you get annoyed, I'm sorry. Like I say on my home page, this is my story!
[note: I left the words "I'm sorry" in here for a purpose. Right now, it's how I think. It's a habit. It's really a bad habit. Many people hear those words and think that I'm saying that I'm wrong, when it is actually just a phrase that I have learned to try to deflect anger or judgement directed toward me. The problem is, the phrase is usually, "I'm sorry, but....", and for those who are expecting an apology after I'm sorry, it leads to more frustration. (Yes, STBX played a big role here.)]
Not wanting to, or liking to, be overly wordy, let me cut to the chase. As I said before, I'm putting it out there. So here's the overview of me...the big picture.
I'm a 53 year old white female. I'm sure that that sentence alone will make some people search for the x in the top left or right of their screen and move on. But, such is life. I don't view myself as being "middle-aged" (oh, the horror!) but, years don't lie. This site is part of a change that is taking place in my life. In some circles it's called a mid-life crisis. I prefer to think of it as a "revisioning." Yes, that's a word that I made up...but I kind of like it. It is part of the vision that I have for my life, and I am revising my life to make it happen.
I grew up in a regular old family, in a regular old neighborhood. Two parents, one brother, a string of pets. Nothing outrageous. The parents stayed married. We lived in the same house my whole life. Pretty unstory worthy so far, at least for the big picture. But as I go on there will be stories, I promise.
High school lead to college. I spent the typical four years, three majors and 182 hours to come out at the end with a teaching degree. (The saying goes, "If you can't do, teach." But I'll save that soapbox for another time.) I have taught students in just about every grade, bounced around a few teaching jobs, took the long way to a master's degree and the relatively short route to a Ph.D. For close to 20 years now I have been an academic. Ha! Let me rephrase that for my own sake, I've worked at a university, I've been a teacher, I've done service and have been, and still am, an administrator. There, I said it. I've never really considered myself an academic. (There are plenty more stories embedded throughout these years as well.)
I mentioned my STBX. I have been married for 29 years. For the last year, I have been separated from my husband. My "fault", if you will...my decision. For me, it has been a good thing. From my marriage, I have three wonderful, and sometimes not so wonderful, children. They are creating their stories too.
Have I bored you yet? Well, if you're still with me, on the surface the picture is rosy. But reality isn't always what you perceive from the outside. In spite of the face I held up to the world, what I hid was over 30 years of verbal and physical abuse. Codependent crap that originated from not knowing and discounting my worth and value to finally recognizing that this wasn't the way I wanted my story to end.
So, there's the big picture...welcome to my revisioning....welcome to my story.
Tuesday, July 23, 2013
Putting IT out There
My stories are the hardest ones to tell. These stories will be about me, and the people, events, and decisions that have shaped my life. I already know, from how many times I've pressed the backspace key, they will not be easy stories to tell.
If we are the result of the decisions that we've made, then my stories will tell about my decisions. Decisions that have been both good and bad. They will shape your image of me. They will shape your judgements of me. But none the less, I am putting IT out there, so you can do just that.
I will probably share this space with those closest to me last. There are pieces of me that no one, except the others who were there, know about. There are many things that I've kept hidden. These are the termites that have eaten away at my foundation and caused the walls to crack. They are the reason that I have found to rebuild, to revision who I am.
So here's to putting IT out there and being completely vulnerable...I believe that in the end, its worth it!!
If we are the result of the decisions that we've made, then my stories will tell about my decisions. Decisions that have been both good and bad. They will shape your image of me. They will shape your judgements of me. But none the less, I am putting IT out there, so you can do just that.
I will probably share this space with those closest to me last. There are pieces of me that no one, except the others who were there, know about. There are many things that I've kept hidden. These are the termites that have eaten away at my foundation and caused the walls to crack. They are the reason that I have found to rebuild, to revision who I am.
So here's to putting IT out there and being completely vulnerable...I believe that in the end, its worth it!!
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